


Frustrated

by Eleanor_Lambb



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Bottom Miles, Camerashipping, Living Together AU, M/M, PWP, Rough Sex, fuck a plot Bro, i forgot that was the ship name LOL, top waylon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-15 00:25:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19284313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eleanor_Lambb/pseuds/Eleanor_Lambb
Summary: Waylon is known for his patience. Usually.





	Frustrated

**Author's Note:**

> ok so, if this looks familiar i posted this is another work filled w ficlets i did, but ive decided to post this one on its own bc it didnt fit with the others ah. im deleting that chapter from the collection i made so its on its own :D
> 
> If you've read my in progress fic "To Do The Right Thing", you'll understand some physical descriptions of the two, but u dnt have to to understand
> 
> #LetMilesBottom2K19

 

One thing Miles knew Waylon best for, was his patience. Waylon was kind, with a good heart. The attitude of a saint, if Miles wanted to be dramatic. However, as soon as Waylon walks through the door to their apartment, Miles feels the frustration and irritation roll off of him in waves.

"Hey, Way. How was work?" Miles asks, watching Waylon throw his laptop bag down, along with his crutch.

" _Fine_ ," Waylon bites, jerking off his coat. He undoes the top buttons of his shirt, moving out of sight into their bedroom. He comes back out a few minutes later, dressed in sweats and a hoodie. He plops down on the couch, next to Miles, who sits up from his spot sprawled on the couch.

"Bad day?" Miles asks him. He holds a hand to the back of Waylon's neck, but Waylon shrugs him off, sighing through his nose, "Wanna talk about it?" Miles asks, rubbing a hand on Waylon's thigh.

Waylon's head turns. His face is tight, holding back pure frustration. Miles can see an unnatural burn in his eyes that he's never seen before. Those same eyes flit over Miles, scorching pupils dilating.

"Maybe not talk," Waylon says, turning his body.

Miles smirks as Waylon holds him by his collar, kissing him. It's a hungry kiss, all tongue. Waylon grips his shoulders, pushing him down onto the couch. He breaks their kiss, pulling at the bottom of Miles' shirt, rolling it up over his chest, Miles sitting up slightly to tug it off completely and throw it behind their couch. Waylon dives for Miles' neck, kissing down his pulse, sucking hard on his collarbone.

Miles loved this side of Waylon, who let frustration and irritation take over, who was commanding and darkly passionate. Who didn't worry about leaving marks, and wasn't afraid to let Miles know  _exactly_  what he wanted. It was different from the usual polite and well - rounded Waylon Miles was used to.

Waylon's nails scrape down Miles' sides. He leaves behind bruises and marks along Miles' collar, panting heavily as he rolls their hips together.  _Shit, he's hard already_. Waylon licks and bites around Miles' mark on his chest, ash flaking and smearing. Waylon sits up, eyes blown and dark, ash smeared on his cheek. He grips the sides of Miles' head, kissing him, all teeth and tongue. He breaks away quickly, pushing Miles' legs apart. Luckily, Miles is wearing some faded, old pajama pants, so he feels nothing but burning desire when Waylon rips them down the seam.  _Jesus, never done that before._  Waylon's eyebrows shoot up.

"No underwear?" He says, voice low. Before Waylon came home, Miles had taken shower, and threw on a random set of clean clothes, not concerned with underwear. Miles grins, but the smile is short - lived as Waylon shoves two fingers into his mouth.

Miles takes the hint, coating the digits with his saliva, watching Waylon struggle to pull his sweats down to his thighs, exposing his long cock. Miles' dick twitches in the tatters of his pants when Waylon's springs free. Waylon pulls his fingers away.

"On your knees," he says, though less of a command, more of a suggestion. Miles complies with gusto, flipping himself onto his knees, back arched. He crosses his arms, chin resting on top, feeling Waylon pull more at the seams of his pants.

Relief overtakes him when he feels Waylon tug on his cock, squeeze his testes. Just as quickly as Waylon pulls at him, his hand pulls away, and Miles almost gripes at the loss of contact. Slim fingers press against his entrance, a tip probing. Miles bites down on his forearm, stifling groans. Waylon shows a little mercy, just staring out with one finger, but he quickly slides it in and out, deep and harsh, barely giving Miles time to adjust. A second finger probes its way in, stretching Miles out, making him groan and gasp. He attempts to roll his hips back, but Waylon's other hand grips his hip.

"No," he says, simply and plainly, "Stay still."

Blood hot as it ran through his body, Miles stills his hips, legs tensing as he tries to keep himself in place.  _You're the boss, Way_. Miles wouldn't say he's a glutton for rough sex, per say, but  _fuck_ , _does it feel good to be on the ordered around sometimes._

Hot saliva travels down his taint, Waylon's fingers receding. Miles groans at the emptiness, which doesn't last long, as a burning heat pokes at his entrance.

_C'mon, Way, c'mon_ , Miles wants to say. He bites his lip, fighting the urge to push back.

Hands travel up Miles' back, one holding his shoulder, the other holding his hip. Waylon presses in, harsh and quick, almost snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt with a growl. Miles yelps, seeing stars. Waylon's cock stings, stretching Miles out in the best ways.  _Christ almighty_. He closes his eyes, clenching around Waylon's length. Waylon presses forward, laying sweet kisses on Miles' shoulders. It takes a few moments, but Miles' body eases to accommodate Waylon, cock throbbing hotly. Miles runs his fingers over the hand on his shoulder.  _I'm good._

Waylon lifts off from Miles' back, pulling his hips back, the head just peeking out from inside Miles, before he slams back in. Miles bites down harder on his arms.  _That's it, Way, you're so fucking hot_. It takes every bit of self control Miles has not to grab at his cock. Waylon repeats the snap of his hips, Miles' ears ringing. Waylon pushes down at Miles' back, coaxing him to angle his ass more into the air. Waylon plants his hands on the arm rest of the couch, each hand flanking Miles' arms and head, thrusting into Miles wildly.  _That's it, Boss, c'mon._

Miles struggles to keep still as Waylon's cock brushes that sweet spot inside him. Miles can taste blood, heat and pressure building up in his gut, winding like the turn of a key. Waylon's pace slows, and one hand grips the back of Miles' dark hair, yanking him up. One of Waylon's arms winds around Miles' waist, holding Miles against his chest. Miles blindly grabs at the armrest of the couch, nails digging into the fabric.

" _Fuck_ , Miles, you're so  _tight_ ," Waylon accentuates this with a sharp thrust up, directly hitting Miles' G - spot, stars dancing in Miles' vision.

Miles laughs, airy and tired, "Anything for you, Boss," he says. The grip on his roots tightens, Waylon angling Miles' head more to the side as he bites down on the space where Miles' shoulder met neck. Waylon's pace is brutal, and  _everything_  Miles could want, the fabric of Waylon's hoodie roughly brushing his bare back.

The hand in his hair moves down, blunt nails scraping down his chest and stomach, grabbing at Miles' cock. It only takes a tight grip and a few quick pumps for Miles' to shudder and moan, and spill out into Waylon's hand. Waylon's stops his hips, milking Miles until his cock falls flaccid. The arm around Miles' waist releases him, and Miles collapses onto the couch.

Waylon starts his harsh pace up again, and Miles whimpers at the overstimulation, clenched tight around Waylon's cock as he fucks Miles into the couch. Sharp groans filled the room, and Waylon pulls out. A hand grasps Miles' arm.

" _Flip_."

Without hesitation, Miles flips onto his back.

Waylon's teeth are grit, in an unusual grimace, eyes closed, sweaty and flushed, sandy hair sticking to his forehead. If Miles wasn't so roughly fucked - out, he would've made a comment about how utterly  _gorgeous_  Waylon looked. Waylon's hand roughly pumps his prick, and with a shuddering moan, he comes over Miles' chest. Miles watches in a hazy cloud as Waylon pumps himself dry, collapsing.

There's nothing but the sound of heavy breathing, the air heavy with sweat and sex. Miles' body aches, empty and sore. He coaxes his hand over Waylon's shoulderblades, feeling his thin form through his hoodie. After a few moments, Waylon lifts off of Miles' chest, grinning. Miles grabs him by his cheeks, pulling him down to kiss him.

Waylon's fingers gently drag down Miles' chest and sides, touching the scratches and hickeys he's left behind, "Sorry," he mutters against Miles' lips.

" _Jesus_ , Way, I  _never_  wanna hear you apologize for fucking me like that," Miles responds, arms around Waylon's shoulders. His voice is hoarse, "I love you so fucking  _much_."

Waylon laughs, kissing Miles again.


End file.
